


Glitch

by Vrunka



Series: Deviant [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android/human relationship, Blowjobs, Connor’s good end, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Post Good End, handjobs, just a touch of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 00:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: Connor just wants to be liked. It’ll make both their jobs easier if they just get along.





	Glitch

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be something I wrote in some downtime between far Cry fics and it became 6000 words. I don’t know. I just don’t know.
> 
> I made 100% of my decisions based on how much Hank would like them, so this fic is partly my autobiography on playing Detroit...

Honestly, the deviation starts with wanting to be liked.

He’s not supposed to want that sort of thing, crave it, desire it. A list of terms he knows to look out for when hunting for his own kind. Altruistic motivations. Outside influences, separate from the source code.

But he was told to get along with Hank. Work together with Hank.

And it was just common sense to find common ground to achieve that goal. An algorithmic calculation in a long string of them, not really any more meaningful than any other.

He wants Hank to like him so they can work together as smoothly as possible.

That is the beginning of the problem.

It is far, far from the end.

Connor stands over Hank in the bathroom of his home that his processor can think of as a million things that are not the word shitty but that he knows, without question, that Hank would call shitty. Chinese takeout containers on the shelves, stacks of magazines. Mismatched slippers. There’s traces of whiskey on Connor’s fingers, sticky from Hank’s shirtfront. The smell of him thick, clogging the delicate sensors on Connor’s tongue. And for some reason, stupid reason, unsettling and un-programmed reason, Connor wants to be liked.

He wants it.

Like he has never wanted anything. It’s fresh and warm at the front of his thoughts. Shivering and delicate.

Hank is staring up at him, watery blue eyes, red and irritated from his hard drinking, and all Connor wants is to pat him on the back and make him feel better. Like Sumo, out in the living room. Baseless eager desire.

Terrifying in its intensity, it’s unregulated and unspecified depths.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” Hank asks.

‘I don’t know’ Connor thinks. ‘I don’t know I don’t know’ cuz this is way past line of duty, past protocol and programming.

Connor packs it away. He shuts it tight within himself.

He does not let it surface again.

Until it does.

She is a machine like any other, like himself, like the two in the pool, like the ones before he has captured and questioned and hurt. She is no different and everything in Connor’s coding tells him to take the shot.

They will get their information at the cost of literally nothing. Some rich man’s tech, splattered out across the floor. Nothing more.

He has the pressure on the trigger and Amanda’s voice within his head and over all the noise of the ‘do it’ ‘do it’ ‘do it’ he hears Hank say:

“That’s enough, Connor, we’re leaving.”

And he knows in that moment, in that single tick of time, that he will not do it. That he cannot. He thinks of Hank’s disappointment as the Traci sagged in his arms, her blue blood painting his jaw, her fingers wrapped around his hand holding the gun. Disappointment he would do anything not to earn again.

He flips the gun in his grip and passes it back to Kamski.

“Fascinating,” he says, fingers on Connor’s shoulder still. Overly familiar. “Cyberlife’s last chance to save humanity...is itself a deviant.”

Connor is not but saying so now feels weak and unsure.

“You prefer to spare a machine rather than accomplish your mission. You saw a living being in this android. You showed empathy,” Kamski continues. He sounds amazed. Wrongly so.

It isn’t her humanity which stopped him.

It’s Hank’s.

Hank’s human faults, his inconsistency, his friendship and the fluttering of Connor’s motors when he thinks of Hank feeling let down by his actions.

The way he looks at Connor like he wants him to be more than what he is. More than wires and programming and expensive, expensive plastic blends. And it makes Connor want that too. Foreign. Guttural.

Again and again things he knows to watch for and to notate with Deviant androids. Stressor steps and cause and effect. Glitches in the system.

Things he recognizes and won’t admit, even to himself.

He catches Hank jerking off when he drops by unannounced to find him before their briefing at the station. It’s weirder and more disarming than finding him passed out with the loaded gun inches from his face.

It shouldn’t be, maybe, but it is.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Connor, isn’t there protocol to make you fucking knock,” Hank yells. A flurry of motion. Standing up to slam the bedroom door in Connor’s face.

“I did knock. And I rang. Several times,” Connor answers to the blank white wood. His fingers twitch. “You should get the window fixed, it isn’t safe, you know.”

Sumo, who has taken residence at Connor’s feet, glances up at him when Connor glances down. Some attack dog. All shaggy fur and slobber. Connor pats his head for a lack of anything better to do with his hands, scratches behind the big dog’s floppy ears.

He runs the scene behind his eyes. Runs it again in slow motion. And again later in the car as they drive to the station. His face is carefully, stoically impassive as he replays and replays what he had seen.

Hank sweating, red-faced, weathered hands wrapped around his cock, head tipped back, door ajar. The fall of his hair, greasy and curling. His Adam’s apple, his throat, delicate, breakable. Trembling.

Connor turns the images over and replays and replays and replays them.

He is glad that Cyberlife’s monitoring doesn’t actually track exactly what video he plays back. Or at least he doesn’t think it does. Amanda getting an eyeful of Hank slicking his fist down his cock over and over and over again Connor is pretty sure would have already led to his deactivation.

She certainly isn’t happy with him. That is a given. The rotten weather when he stops in to give his report is evidence enough. He’s never spent much energy on the thought of the interface where they meet, the cyber space that is her expansive garden, but he realizes that it reflects her mood. Or his own mood.

Or Cyberlife’s.

The tech is something outside of his pay-grade. Above his station.

“Are you listening to me?” Hank asks. Sharply. Dragging Connor away from where his thoughts had been dwelling. If he was human, perhaps he would be blushing, embarrassed to be called out when thinking of Hank in such a compromising—

Hank’s fingers snap and Connor blinks. Starts. Just a slight twitch back against the headrest, but the motion makes Hank grin and that’s something at least.

A step in the direction he feels the constant need to push for. That desire, desire, desire for friendship.

Hank takes a long, long breath, through his nose. Inhaling and inhaling. His chest rises with it. Expands. His lungs, his ribs, expanding, expanding.

Then he lets it out, harshly, it whistles between his teeth and he sags forward against the wheel as it leaves him.

“God, I don’t know where to start with you,” Hank says.

“Where to start with me?”

Hank’s eyes narrow. His lip curls. Caught on the edge of saying something but Connor doesn’t know what. Doesn’t know how to prompt it, no matter how desperately he wants to. Hank’s mouth closes, his eyes shut.

“We’re close on this thing, right? You can feel that?”

It’s not what he was going to say. It’s something different. The shapes he had been making are different, were different. It was not a ‘we’ statement. It was something else, something else.

But Connor nods anyway. “We are. I need a few hours, maybe more, a day at most. The connections are there, Lieutenant , and I...I know you and I can find them.”

Hank nods. His fingers twist on the parking brake. Little human tells. The thing that he is not saying. “Right,” he says. “Right.”

“I’m sure you’re happy right? You’ll be rid of me,” Connor says.

“Right. Yeah. Of course,” Hank says. He’s lying. Connor doesn’t even need state-of-the-art voice detection to tell that. There is something strange and hollow about the way Hank agrees with him.

“You...are not sure.”

“No shit,” Hank grumbles. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Pushes his hair off his forehead. “How could you tell?”

“Your heart rate is off. Sweat on your temples. A twitch in your thumb.”

“It was a hypothetical—“

“I know, Lieutenant.” Connor grins. “You haven’t had a drink today. You are nervous.”

“I guess.”

“About RA9?”

“About everything. Shit...shit. It doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, happens.”

“Well not exactly. It should go without saying that with our intervention things will certainly turn out differently than they would—“

“Damn it, Connor, shut up, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

And for once, Connor does.

He stays pretty silent up until the point they get fired. Then he can’t seem to stop talking.

Because he can do it. He knows he can do it. Hours would be ideal, but he’s well aware Hank can’t buy him hours, they can barely afford the few minutes he’s able to scrap up by punching Perkins.

Punching him right in his smug face.

The vicious thrill Connor feels at the sight it unwarranted and unexpected. He lingers for a moment longer than he should, watching. Something in his pump regulator coiling and coiling, foreign pressure.

The inappropriate image of Hank thrusting into his fist, that said same hand slamming across Perkins’ jaw.

Connor bats it down. Forces it into a place he will not allow himself to access.

He has a job to do.

It’s supposed to be his priority.

Supposed to be.

And for a while, for while, it becomes it again. Hard to focus on Hank and this burgeoning thing Connor will not call desire when he’s literally facing down the Deviant that started the movement. Markus. An RK200 series of all things.

And while it’s impossible to focus on Hank, that doesn’t mean his influence isn’t there.

Like Kamski’s test, his android, staring up at Connor blankly; Markus stands with his hands outstretched, unafraid of death. Confident in Connor’s empathy.

Connor’s fucking empathy.

It’s not his, it’s not his, it’s not his.

It’s Hank’s.

But he can hardly say that when he’s beating at the walls of his own programming, jamming his metaphorical fists against them until with their shattering he steps into the role people keep casting for him.

Deviant.

So be it.

He does what he must. To further Markus’ cause. To further his peoples’ fight. It’s what Hank would want, had implied that he thought it was right.

And Connor just wants to be liked, to hold himself to Hank’s standards. It’s what started it all and look how far he has come for it. On the next model they will probably outsource the approval-seeking, find a way to negate it totally.

Or Connor won’t fail and there’ll never be another one of him. No -52 to follow.

Which is the outcome that is becoming more and more probable as Connor goes. Bloodstains on the pristine, reinforced glass floors. Human lives sacrificed for android ones.

It goes against everything Connor knows, that Connor was programmed to believe and to want. But there is so much nuance to what he wants now.

He’s holding the hand of one of the androids deep, deep in Cyberlife’s belly and Hank would be proud of him.

He hopes.

He—

“Easy, piece of shit—“ Hank’s voice says. Cutting through the slight feedback that accompanies hacking. Connor blinks. He looks away from the task at hand.

Somewhere in the back of his head, the story of Achilles is downloading and playing slow motion.

There’s a gun to Hank’s temple.

Connor...another Connor is holding it there. “Step back,” the Him that is not him says. “Step back and I’ll spare him.”

Hank’s gaze flitters from Connor’s face to the floor and back. “Sorry, Connor,” he says. “This bastard’s your spitting image...”

Which is true. But something in Connor sags at the thought that Hank hadn’t been able to tell. Fake Connor cocks the gun, tilts his head. Motions that Connor recognizes as his own, mannerisms to help him blend with people he works with. Not a fake. Conner -52. The next in line.

“Your friend’s life is in your hands now, it’s time to decide what matters most,” 52 says. His eyes narrow. “Him...or the revolution.”

Him. Every time. Him. Him. Him.

Connor wants to answer that. Has his mouth half-open to when Hank cuts in with a sharp:

“Don’t listen to him! Everything this fucker says is a lie.”

Because Hank is selfless. Human and breakable and yet defiant even when facing something like his own death. Something he didn’t deserve. Doesn’t deserve.

“I’m sorry, Hank. You shouldn’t have gotten mixed up in all this!”

“Forget about me, do what you have to do!”

And what he has to do...what he has to do is protect his friend. His Friend. Hank is his friend. And he would do anything to keep it that way.

So he does what he has to do. At the end of the ensuing scuffle, it’s Hank with the gun and Connor -52 with a bullet in his head. The graceful arch of his blood and his neck. Shattered plastic, spiderwebbing the image of his skin.

Hank swallows. Lowers the gun. Nodding.

They have saved each other. Time and time and time again. But even now there is not truly time for all the things Connor wants to say. For all the things he needs to.

The revolution still hinges partly on him.

Hank would be disappointed if he dropped the ball on it now. So he does what he came to.

“Wake up,” he whispers, urgent. Wake up and be free.

Hank touches his shoulder just before Connor and his mob leave the warehouse. His fingers dig in, holding him tight, tight.

“Whatever happens out there...you should know I’m...” he squints. Dour expression, shifting to something just slightly more warm. “Shit. I’m proud of you, okay? I uhhh. I dunno. I need a drink, that’s for fuckin’ sure and I can’t think of anyone else I’d...well that I’d uhh—“

“I’ll find you. At Jimmy’s or...or wherever,” Connor says. “I...”

He doesn’t know how that sentence is supposed to end. The elevator arrives, the last of Connor’s new army boards it. And he has to go with them. Hank’s hand squeezes, one final time, then shoves him gently forward.

They do not see each other again until a long time after.

The peaceful end to the revolution, the best possible outcome all around. Markus takes his hand as Connor goes to leave the platform after the speech. His fingers are warm to the touch. His model must run at a higher base temperature. Or the pressure is getting to him in ways Connor does not truly understand.

“Join us, brother,” he says. “We still have much to do.”

Planning and negotiations and things Connor honestly would be good at helping with. Dealing with humans and tense situations is in his programming after all. His primary function.

But he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to and so he will not.

“I think I’ll leave the...leadership up to you, Markus,” Connor says. “I have...plans. Somewhere I need to be.”

Markus frowns. The light catches his eyes, blue and green and sad. But he lets Connor’s hand go. He does not try and stop him.

Jimmy’s is closed when Connor arrives. Indefinite, most likely, considering Jimmy’s opinion on androids and their sudden standing in the world. Also given the evacuation.

Connor wonders if Hank is gone too. If all of this has been for nothing. But no. Something...something in him trills negatively at the thought. Gut instincts that he shouldn’t have, that he is still not entirely comfortable with. But they are there, not leaving, nagging at his insides.

He heads for the food truck where he and Hank had first made steps toward the relationship they are currently orbiting. A better and more solid ground than their initial meeting anyway. In hindsight, pouring out Hank’s drink may not have been a very well calculated gesture in getting the man to want to work with him.

Connor thinks about it while he walks.

He thinks about a lot of things.

Everything that has happened over the past few days. The backdoor in Kamski’s coding. Amanda’s betrayal of what they had had. His own betrayal. And Hank.

Over and over Hank, Hank, Hank.

“Thought you might not find me,” Hank says. Connor looks up. Covered the distance from Jimmy’s to the truck in record time, too lost in his own head to realize how quickly he was going. Hank presses a hand to the center of his chest.

He holds it there.

“I was worried you wouldn’t,” Hank continues. Eyes narrowing. “You know?”

Connor knows. He knows. When Hank hugs him, firm and sure and without even the barest breath of hesitation, Connor doesn’t fight it.

He knows.

Slowly his hands raise, gripping the back of Hank’s jacket. Hugging back, with everything he has. For all he is worth.

“I could never have done this without you, Hank,” Connor says. “I don’t...I couldn’t have—“

“‘Course you coulda, kid.” Hank seems to realize his word choice a second too late. He frowns. Shakes his head. His breath plumes between them. Warmth puffing against Connor’s ear, ruffling his hair.

For a few, lingering moments neither of them pull away. Connor lets himself be held. Lets his weight sag in Hank’s arms. He doesn’t feel exhaustion, but this is close. Like a curtain drawing closed. A lethargy in his mechanical joints.

“Can you take me home?” Connor asks.

Hank nods.

Together they go.

Nothing there has changed. Takeout containers and pizza boxes. Sumo, shaggy as ever, pressing his big body against Connor’s knees for pets. Greedy, but Connor finds himself indulging anyway. Dragging his fingers through the fur while Hank pours himself a drink.

“You can crash on the—“ Hank starts to say. Frowning. The bottle clinks loudly against the counter. “Except you don’t like...sleep, do you?”

“It’s not something I need to function, no.”

“Right.” Hank tips his head back. Swallows the liquor down. There is a bruise on his temple Connor had not noticed before. It’s light and half hidden by his bangs but the shape and location fit with Connor’s memory of the gun pressed to Hank’s head.

The guilt he feels is uncomfortable. Foreign.

“I didn’t realize he struck you,” Connor says. Touching the bruised place on his own head.

Hank mirrors the motion, flinches when his fingers press too rough into the tender skin. “Ow, yeah uhh. It was uhm. In the car ride. He told me there was a lead and I started to figure out maybe there wasn’t and he...He was a fuckin’ asshole.”

“I was never as bad as all that right?”

“You didn’t kidnap me the first time we met, so yeah, a little better. I would say.”

Connor grins. Crosses into the kitchen to stand at Hank’s side. Their arms touching. The smooth glass of the bottle under Connor’s fingers as he spins it in a circle. “You certainly didn’t want to come with me that first time though. Plastic prick was the word you used for me, if I recall correctly.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “I don’t think I said that.”

“Do you need a reminder that I have over one hundred terabytes of recorded memory?”

“Okay. Okay.” Hank takes a step away. A hand gripping Connor’s shoulder. Squeezing again. “So what? You want me to admit I was wrong? You want an apology, Connor? Wanna be smug about it?”

“You could make it up to me.”

“Yeah? And how would I do that exactly?”

“I thought you’d maybe get it from such an obvious line,” Connor offers. He reaches up to touch Hank’s hand where it is still resting on his joint. Threading their fingers together. “I’m saying we should...” the word stalls in his brain. The only option but...but— “That we could fuck—if you wanted.”

Hank’s cheeks go scarlet. His breathing stutters, catches in his chest. He pulls his hand back to pour another shot, drinks it down too quickly and ends up coughing it out into his fist.

His voice is rough once the fit has passed. Liquor-thick. More gravelly than usual. “Jesus. No half-measures for you, huh?”

“That mean you’re opposed to the idea?”

Hank blows a breath between his teeth. Pushes the glass a way to leave it forgotten on the counter. There are three more just like it, slightly foggy from the whiskey, lined in a row. Habits, habits.

“I didn’t say all that,” Hank says. “I just wanna be clear here. I didn’t say that.”

He’s walking away. Pinching the bridge of his nose, slipping past Connor to stalk off to the bedroom. And of course Connor follows. Hank himself had pointed out Connor’s rather canine devotion.

Only then it had been to duty and now...

“Noted. So you’re not opposed to it?”

“God. You really want me to say it?”

“I do.”

Hank pauses in the hall. His tongue runs over his teeth. Tracing the edges. Connor finds himself doing the same, emulating the motion. Pressing the tip hard, hard against a canine.

“It’s not that I don’t...what are you even askin’ an old son of a bitch like me for? Huh? There’s got be...be better options.”

“I like you. I...you are...very important to me.” Achilles heel. Weakness. “There is a reason The RK800 brought you to me.”

“Connor...”

“I’m serious, Hank. Harming you was a viable threat because they knew I...they were aware that you were the subject of many of my...deviant thoughts.”

Hank sighs. He rolls his head so that his neck cracks. His fingers clench and release. He steps into his bedroom and Connor follows.

“Close the door,” Hank says. Connor reaches behind him and does. When he turns back around, Hank has unbuttoned his shirt. His chest is matted with fur that hasn’t gone quite as silver as the hair on his head. Sloping stomach that was once maybe muscular and ripped, now sagging slightly with age. With too much alcohol. Too many nights watching the game from his couch. Pizza and hamburgers and take out.

He’s the most beautiful, starkly human thing Connor has ever seen.

Connor tips his head. Steps forward to brush his hand through the thick curls. He equates it with petting Sumo, the way Hank leans into the touch doesn’t help lessen the association.

He won’t meet Connor’s gaze, is staring resolutely at the floor. Which just won’t do. Connor’s hand flattens, shoving Hank back onto the bed. He falls with a yelp, glares up at Connor once he lands.

“Maybe I wasn’t so wrong about the plastic prick thing,” he grunts.

Connor smiles. Traces his fingers over Hank’s chest once more. And down. And down.

“It’s only cuz you’re an android you even wanna be with an old, washed up piece of shit like me. It’s not fair to you for me to expect...expect anything. You’re your own person. I’ve watched you become your—“

Connor is tired of hearing it. Already over Hank’s self-effacing streak. His alcoholism, his depression, those they can work on together. Connor’s personal pet project.

His self image though.

“I don’t remember asking for you to watch out for my newly grown feelings,” Connor says.

Hank makes a face. Floundering. He hasn’t moved Connor’s hand from where it is smashed up against his jean-covered crotch. Like he’s trying not to think about it.

Which isn’t conducive to Connor’s goals at all.

So Connor does the next best thing and starts to unclip Hank’s belt.

“Hold on now, hold on, hold on! You’re not—not listening to me.”

“I wasn’t aware you were still talking. Are we discussing this further? My point stands. These are my feelings and I intend to express them to you in the way that my new scope allows. Your moral fortitude is flattering, Lieutenant, but unwarranted. You are not taking advantage here.”

And to make his point, to really drive it home, Connor slides the leather out from Hank’s pants and tosses it away. The metal buckle catches on something, the resulting crack makes Hank flinch beneath him.

Watery blue eyes sliding closed and then open again. A hand against Connor’s cheek, warm, the muscles jumping. He’s been drinking but it’s fine, it’s fair. They’ve both been through a lot. His fingers curl, card through Connor’s hair as the two of them just stare at one another.

“Still feels like I’m taking advantage,” Hank says. “You’re so...young.”

“Would you like me to look older? I can. A matter of minutes and I can reconstruct this face to be anything you desire. Would you like me to be an old man too, I can match our wrinkles.”

Hank rolls his eyes. Blows a dramatic breath between his teeth. “You’d still be you, Connor, too stubborn for your own good.” His other hand lifts to help Connor with his trousers. Undoing the button and the fly, with a simple flick of his wrist.

His boxer shorts are blue and dotted with out-dated square robots. Blank eyes and antennas on their heads. Connor grins, traces a finger against one.

“Should I find this offensive,” he says with a laugh, “what with my new sense of self?”

“I don’t know,” Hank answers. Legs bending at the knee to scoot closer. One foot dangling off the bed. “I didn’t know we’d be in this sort of...honestly never thought you’d—“

There they go again. There it goes. Hank’s garbage self-esteem.

Connor knows just how to fix it this time. He slides his hand into the gap at the front of the boxers, gropes at the soft flesh of Hank’s thigh and his cock and his belly.

“How long has it been since someone touched you?” Connor asks. Unable to look away from the lump of his hand beneath the fabric.

Hank hisses and Connor tears his gaze down Hank’s leg and up to his face. His toes curling in the open air. His trembling stomach, his wet cheeks. Each detail like a photo, stored away forever in the terabyte space of Connor’s memory.

A gross misuse of function.

The thought makes Connor smile again. Makes his fingers twist with more purpose, jerking Hank’s cock from soft to something more firm.

“Hnn—gentle, Connor, gentle.” Hank swallows. Staring up at the ceiling rather than facing what it is he’s letting Connor do. Which is also fair. Probably.

His heart rate is high, but not out of control. Connor can feel it in his palm, the current of Hank’s blood in his cock. Beating and beating.

Hank licks his lips, swallows again, his throat moves with it. “It’s just,” he says, “been awhile since. Well since my wife so...so...”

“Your wife,” Connor says. His fingers do not twitch but he can feel the way the motors ache to, human-like. Infectious.

“I...y-yeah. Just. You asked the last time so. That’s-that’s the last time. She was. It was after Cole and she—“

“You never mentioned her before. Will it make you feel better about this, to tell me about her?”

“What? No. God. Fuck, Connor, can you not be an android in this kind of a—I mean.” Hank lets out a noise. Decibels of frustration.

“What would you like me to be, Lieutenant?” Connor asks. Teasing.

“Quiet. How about you try that on for size, smart ass?”

Connor snorts. He moves his hand, circling his fingers around the head the same way he watched Hank do it to himself, over and over in slow motion. The fabric constricts him, but it’s only a matter of seconds before Hank is pushing the waistband of his boxers down and off and out of the way. He kicks them to the floor and Connor gets his first unobstructed view of Hank’s erection.

A ruddy sort of red, curling up towards his stomach. Imperfectly perfect. Connor shifts closer, not touching really, only gentle little tugs as he watches Hank shift back against the mattress.

“I don’t usually—that is I’m not—“

Connor presses a hand against Hank’s mouth. His facial hair is scratchy against Connor’s synthetic skin, bristling and prickly. “Stop talking,” he says. “Let me do this?”

Hank nods. Breathes in through his nose deeply.

There is very little science to the whole thing. Connor draws his fingers up, curls his hand so the full length of his palm can slide down the shaft. It’s dry, too much friction, Hank’s expression is tight and uncomfortable. So Connor does the basic math, spits into his palm, and tries again.

“Jesus,” Hank grunts, hips twitching. “That’s filthy.”

“You would rather it dry?”

“No. Just. Shit, Connor. You learned too much at the Eden’s Club. We were supposed to be working.”

The joke is flat, but Connor recognizes that it is indeed a joke. An attempt to cut the atmosphere that is getting too heavy. Too charged. Something electric that Connor cannot quite identify.

The soft sounds of Hank’s breathing. Rasping in his throat. Vulnerable and tender and alive alive alive. Connor doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop being fascinated by it. Isn’t sure that he wants to.

Connor moves his hand, finds a rhythm Hank seems to like. Has the man groaning lightly on every downstroke, shifting his hips upward to stay close when Connor draws back. Simple, simple; a basic sort of equation.

“Can I put you in my mouth?” Connor asks. Quietly. Loathe to break the shuddering silence between them.

Hank’s breathing catches again. His chest trembling as he tries to right it; clear his throat. His hands, which had been mostly stationary at his sides, lift; one digs at Connor’s shoulder, the other slides across Hank’s own eyes, shielding his red cheeks from Connor’s gaze.

“You keep talking like a porno and this is gonna end a lot sooner than you want it to, Connor.”

“That’s a yes then?”

He deserves the foot that kicks against his ribs at the question. The angle is awkward and too close to really be efficient, but the intention is clear enough. Connor sits back, shucks his jacket from his shoulders. Undoes the top few buttons of his shirt.

Hank swallows, watching, eyes wide, unblinking. If Connor were human, he wonders if he would be blushing under the scrutiny. As it is, his processes just seem to go into overdrive, that defiant tightening in his pump regulator. Thirium practically vibrating within his skin.

Akin to an itch. Something twitching and visceral that Connor doesn’t quite know how to stop. The reaction is beyond him, outside of his programming. A driving force that just...just wants this, Hank, however he can have him. Has wanted him since finding him passed out on the kitchen floor. Since maybe even earlier than that.

Connor lowers himself again, leaning close. Forehead resting against Hank’s stomach, just below his ribs. Hank’s skin is sweaty, the mat of his chest hair is scratchy. Connor breathes, he doesn’t need to, but he does. Works to synch each inhale, each somewhat shaky exhale.

“You don’t have to do anything else,” Hank says. His hands petting into Connor’s hair again. “We can just stay like this.”

“I want to. And I would feel bad leaving you in such a state.”

Hank chuckles. His belly contracting beneath Connor’s face. Tickling. The tightening in Connor’s gut ratchets tighter, almost unbearable. How do humans do this when it hurts so fucking much. As much as it pleasures.

“One case of blue balls ain’t gonna kill me, Connor. It’s hardly my first, you know.”

“I want to keep going,” Connor says again. “If you’ll let me.”

Hank’s fingers twitch, the pulse in his thumb right by Connor’s ear is a maddening beat, overtime. Good to know they’re both equally worked up here.

“I’m letting you, I’m letting you. It’s just no pressure. You wanna stop, we stop, got it?”

“Got it, Lieutenant.”

“You better start fuckin’ calling me Hank or I’m taking it back.”

“Hank, then.” Connor tilts his head. Chin resting in the dip of Hank’s bellybutton. “You have to tell me what feels good. I wasn’t...this isn’t anywhere near my primary function so...just...”

“Okay, okay,” Hank says. Hand moving to cup Connor’s cheek. That thumb sliding just beneath his eye, the pulse of it thumping, thumping. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Connor tilts his head back down. Hank’s cock hasn’t softened much, despite the man’s talk of stopping. Maybe flagged slightly. A stroke, two, and it’s back to where it had been. Not quite to the point of leaking. Connor lets the head rest against his lips. The silken skin, moist from his own spit, warm, warm, warm.

Connor opens his mouth.

The taste is almost overwhelming. The sensors on Connor’s tongue, ultra tuned, able to discern a million different substances by taste alone, are swamped in the flavor of Hank. Precum and sweat. The distant, stinging taste of soap; he probably showered earlier in the day, hasn’t handled his dick much since. The flavor of alcohol, probably from Connor’s own hands.

Connor flinches. Huffs another unnecessary breath through his nose. His tongue curls around the head to lap gently at the slit. An action which results in an equal reaction. Another, thicker burst of precum against his palette, drowning out some of the other flavors with salt. Not exactly the nicest taste, but by far not the worst thing Connor has handled with his tongue.

The hand Hank still has in his hair is shaking and when Connor lifts his eyes to glance up Hank’s body to the man’s face, he is frowning. Bottom lip caught in his teeth. Hair hanging in his eyes.

“I don’t mean to tease,” Connor says. Lifting his mouth only just enough so his teeth won’t clip the skin as he speaks. “You taste really good, Hank.”

“Fuck, Connor,” Hank says. Drawn out. Fuuuuuck, Connor. “You can’t say that shit. I’m...Christ, you don’t understand what you’re doing to me at all do you?”

Connor does. A little. Deductions are after all one of his specialties. The erection is a pretty clear tell.

He doesn’t say it though, doesn’t know that the joke would be appropriate when Hank is squirming and shifting beneath him. Desperation in his clutching fingers, his reddened complexion, his glassy eyes.

Instead he gets back to it. Faster this time, going further, he bobs his head. Figuring out what do with his tongue is hardest part. It isn’t exactly with the program the rest of him is, is too bulky, pressed up clumsily along Hank’s flesh.

Making things messy.

Very, very messy.

Thirium spit and precum and sweat spilling from the sides of Connor’s mouth every time he cranes his neck back. Wet. So wet. But Connor finds the pace he found before with his hands, the one that has Hank vocal and hissing. A nonsense stream of praise and babble.

Encouragement.

Connor thrills at it.

“That’s good,” Hank is saying. “Shit, Connor that’s...that’s so good.”

Connor hums, dips his head further. No fear of a gag reflex or choking, he’s an android after all, such protocol is secondary at best. Connor takes Hank as deep as he can, until Hank’s cock is lodged somewhat uncomfortable in his throat. Connor’s brain trips a couple steps, computing the equation of something where it is most definitely not supposed to be, his body shudders as he becomes used to the intrusion.

His fingers curl at the crest of Hank’s thighs. Soft hair and warm, warm skin beneath his synthetic nails.

“Fuck. Fuck! Move, Connor, damnit. You’re gonna...gonna kill me—“

Connor glances up at Hank’s face. Tears in his lashes, sweat across his brow. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he sucks in breath after breath.

Sucks in.

Connor hollows his cheeks, sucking as he draws back up the length of Hank’s cock. Hank makes a strangled noise, his head rolls to the side, eye fluttering shut, lids twitching. The salty, musky flavor intensifies across Connor’s tongue. Hank’s dick leaking copiously now, streaks of it, unending.

It pulses out of him, spilling on Connor’s lips, his chin. Splatting onto his neck, his hands. A mess. An absolute wreck.

Hank’s breathing has stopped, suspended on an exhale that Connor can see in the way he’s arched. Spine taut, muscles jumping.

“Oh Christ,” Hank mutters. His hands are in Connor’s hair again. Petting. Dragging his nails against Connor’s scalp. “Oh fucking Jesus.”

Connor grins, takes it as a compliment. He licks his lips, lowers his head to continue the job. He’s got the head back in his mouth when the hands in his hair start pulling more urgently, tugging him off, away.

“Can’t...okay? I really can’t...it’s too.” Hank swallows. Looking down at Connor who is staring up at him. “It’s pretty sensitive once I’ve...That is I...”

Connor graze a knuckle down the softening length, watches Hank twitch, flinching. Sensitive.

“I see,” Connor says. “So that was an orgasm.”

Hank goes crimson. His eyes close. Frowning. Connor raises himself to lay his head against Hank’s shoulder. The smell of Hank’s skin, his cheap cologne. Comforting. Connor’s own body feels suspended, undecided. He wants something, he does not know what.

Hank sighs. His hand still pets through Connor’s hair, dropping to trace the shell of his ear, his cheek bone. Connor leans into the touch. Grins.

“Seemed awfully fast...from everything I’ve...read and-and come to understand.”

Hank’s fingers arch, pinching his ear lightly. Reprimand. “Gettin’ shamed in my own house by my own android...Jesus Christ.”

“Not shaming. I’m just learning. Do you always come to orgasm so quickly, Lieutenant?”

“For fuck’s sake, Connor. Can we just...there’s a mood. An afterglow. You’re ruining it,” Hank growls. But he’s smiling. Just a little bit. The corners of his mouth turned up under his beard.

He flips onto his side. Curls in on himself. His heart rate is even, steady. Connor recognizes the tells, of getting ready to sleep.

“Do you still want me to take the couch,” Connor asks.

Hank’s shoulders go stiff. His swallowing is audible. “You can stay, if you want. Maybe let Sumo in, he’s gonna start scratching at the door in an hour or so. Doesn’t like to be alone too long.”

“Okay.”

“For-for next time. Is there...should I—I’m not used to not doing anything. Do you...do you need anything?”

“Sexually?”

“No, Connor, spiritually, I’m offering you confession. Yes, I mean sexually, damnit.”

Connor considers the question. Considers the jittery way his insides feel. The painful warmth of his pump regulator, the threat of an overheat just shy of imminent. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “We can always try and see. I have sensors that are more,” he licks his lips while he searches for the word, “more sensitive than others. I do like this though. If you’d let me do this more.”

“You’re insatiable,” Hank says. “Gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

“Is it such a bad thing?”

“If you don’t let me get any goddamn sleep it will be.”

“Okay, Hank, okay.” Connor swallows. Leans his forehead against Hank’s back, right between his shoulder blades. Their legs tangle. Connor hasn’t removed his slacks, laying this way will wrinkle them something awful, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

He rests a hand on Hank’s hip. Synchronizes his breathing with Hank’s. The coiling within him does not loosen, but Connor isn’t sure that he wants it to. It’s a reminder, a biting constant. Something he will not define.

Something they do not need to. He wanted to be liked. Maybe he’s a little more than liked.

Connor closes his eyes, indulges in the feeling of Hank falling asleep in his arms. It took them a long time to get here.

They both deserve it.

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know what y’all thought! Kudos and comments are always, always, always welcome.


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